plane crash in c
by tinted lens
Summary: It's his birthday and she uses an entire week's worth of savings to buy half a dozen strawberry popsicles. It isn't in the plan, but she does it anyway. Just because. / "Happy birthday." Pokkle&Ponzu.


**title**—plane crash in c**  
summary**—It's his birthday and she uses an entire week's worth of savings to buy half a dozen strawberry popsicles. It isn't in the plan, but she does it anyway. Just because. / "Happy birthday."  
**prompt/pairing**—suspension/pokkle&ponzu.

**disclaimer**—do not own.

**warnings/tags**—drabble. slice-of-life au. abuse of brackets. absurd plot. bad pacing. lowercase. generic teenage angst/generic teenage fluff.

—

papercuts

.

.

it just happens.

.

.

by text message, he congratulates her on another year past and she doesn't know what, exactly should be congratulated about the idea of another quiet step down the paved road leading to inevitable demise— even the sentence doesn't make sense. or maybe she's just being a cynic, which makes more sense than anything else in her train of thoughts right now.

but in the end, she smiles anyway.

the next day, she accidentally spots him in the crowd, hat sticking out, and waves, perhaps as a means of showing gratitude. he waves back, grinning before he disappears in the hallways.

and for once she thinks that it's just that— pokkle, ponzu with no freaking [&] or anything else attached in the middle of it all. nothing more. just them.

.

.

they share her belated birthday cake together that night and— she couldn't be happier. even if he insists on putting strawberries on ever single one of his slices.

(and sometimes, she lets herself think it's not _just them_— what they aren't, what they are and what they could be. and on other days, she desperately tries not to think about things she knows she shouldn't— the edge of his lips when he smiles or strawberry popsicles [his favorite] or god forbid, _holding hands_. things like that.)

.

.

time passes and slowly, the worry and guilt diminishes to apathy, but by then she doesn't care enough to overthink it the way she usually woukd.

he holds her hand as they walk home and she wonders, briefly, if she's ever going to get out of this mess she's made for herself. for him.

(it's better this way. really.)

.

.

eventually, her walls crack and she leans in, one afternoon (five minutes after school) in an empty classroom.

she closes her eyes and he relaxes against her. her head is spinning, (fuckfuck_fuck_ this isn't me i'm ponzu and ponzu doesn't—) the choir doesn't sing and she sun doesn't set and the only thing remotely dramatic is the chirping sparrows, vaguely audible from afar. it kind of makes her want to cry, but she's never been the type who would.

but still. she'd like to think it's perfect— it's fucking supposed to be, it's her first and that's what everybody says about firsts, they're _perfect_ and.

and for once she sees _something_ between them— a thin, almost invisible line of saliva that breaks apart the second she catches a flash of it. he's looking at her with a face that says, _whatthefuckareyoutryingtopro ve_? she doesn't know.

he trembles. he walks away, shoulders shaking.

silence. the clock hung on the wall shows that it's five p.m. she notices just because she'd like to at least remember the exact time in which everything starts to fall apart, deteriorating and decaying into unsalvageable pieces.

just like life itself.

(except, she _knows_ she can fix this. can't she?)

.

.

the rest of the week is a blur.

she listens to whatever shitty pop song about heartbreak and bad decisions is playing on the radio like there is no tomorrow. partially just to worsen the blow, to dip acid into her papercuts.

(partially to say sorry.)

.

.

two days before his birthday, she makes a point to call his home number. like it means something.

it goes straight to voicemail.

.

.

the day before his birthday, she goes up to her room and starts planning.

.

.

it's his birthday and she uses an entire week's worth of savings to buy half a dozen strawberry popsicles. it isn't in the plan, but she does it anyway. just because.

the sky is blue and cloudless and she can't help but revel at the irony.

lunchtime rolls around and she rushes past happy couples and miserable boys up to the roof five minutes early and she rests the plastic bag exactly fifteen centimeters away from her hand.

and she waits.

.

.

then:

"i can't believ— you're here." he says. it's more of a question, if anything, like he isn't sure.

she snickers, eyes not meeting his. "yeah. where else would i be?"

he sits next to her the way he always does, and the familiarity relieves her a little bit. "anywhere else."

a pause.

"i'm sorry." she finally says. "you know?" she's stuttering and she's nervous, but hopefully he gets the point.

he tenses, but nods. she bites the bottom of her lip— no matter how she tries, her mouth still tastes of damn fruits and toothpaste. or she's beginning to imagine things. maybe a combination of both.

"here." she continues, handing the bag over. "you like strawberries, right?"

a smile. she isn't sure about what it means— emotions and body languange aren't like math or chemistry or physics, but for once she's the optimist and she translates it as a tentative sign of peace. or something.

"thanks."

"happy birthday."

.

.

**a/n. **something i whipped up in the middle of writer's block. this is inspired by camera obscura's _suspended from class_—my kind of song. i love songs whose lyrics both mean nothing and everything at the same time.

i suddenly remember that today is my birthday. what. am i doing this subconciously? so then this is a gift for myself, 'u'

also, give me prompts. writer's block sucks ._.


End file.
